


Feanorian Week 2019

by AmethystTribble



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Caranthir's is rough but its one of my fav hcs, Curufin kinda snuck in Maglor's thing a bit, F/M, Feanor/Nerdanel is literally nothing but fluff, I can't believe I've even written anything this sickeningly sweet, Maedhros continues to suffer, YAY for guilty pleasure ships!, but talk of copious and enjoyed hunting so if that makes you uncomfortable maybe skip chapter six, nothing graphic, these are less plotty and more intrspective-y, tw: hunting, whoops, yes chapter 5's title is a celebrimbor pun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-23 17:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18154982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystTribble/pseuds/AmethystTribble
Summary: Maedhros- Beauty: After Thanogorodrim / Maglor- Kingship: The Costume / Celegorm- Strength and Beauty: Luthien / Caranthir-Appearance: Like Father / Curufin- Forge Work: Wife / Ambarusssa- Hunting: Competition/ Nerdanel & Feanor- Mahtan: Caught





	1. Pale Glitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Thanogorodrim, all his names seem like cruel irony.

_Well-made. Copper-top._

Those were the names he had once identified with. 

‘Nelyafinwë’ was a title the same way as ‘prince’; it was a declaration, a sign of pride, belonging, ownership. He had been proud to carry that title, but he was the third Finwë; Third-Finwë was not him. Instead, he had loved the names from his mother best.

And they had made him vain.

That he could admit, though it was more bitter to acknowledge the fault in his character now. Once, he would chuckle, careful to run his fingers through his hair as he said, “I might spend longer in front of the mirror each morning that my brothers would like!” The sycophants and the friends would laugh, and their eyes would follow the movement of his hand, tracing his fingers moving through his thick and soft hair. It was just a subtle reminder- a move he didn’t even make consciously- that he had reason to be vain. One of many reasons; one of the million small examples he made of himself.

Findekano would call him vain too, and so would Macalaurë. Their complaints were exasperated, and they caught onto his games and how he would show off on occasion. But it was teasing. They mocked and scolded him the same way he whined at Tyelkormo for carrying his hunting knives everywhere- including the bath- or snorted at the gestures Carnistir made at people’s backs. Those small bad habits and little sins were part of what made them their own people. One didn’t have to approve to be endeared to it.

He was vain. But his family was also vain for him. Mother would claim that, “I never thought I would find someone I enjoyed sculpting more than your father, but you are the perfect subject, baby.” Father was very good at many things, and bragging was one of them. Even when stunning Artanis grew well, Father would not let go of his assertion that the eldest was the most beautiful of Finwë’s grandchildren. Fair Tyelkormo would falsely complain that no girl would look his way if he stood next to his brother, and Curufin would bully him into posing for sketches. Ambarussa were almost absurdly proud to have the same hair as their brother.

Not Mother. Their brother.

It was no wonder he was rather vain, and that was something the many who loved him could forgive. He _was_ well-made. His hair _was_ like copper, a mineral more precious than gold or silver in Elven coloring. He was very beautiful.

But after Thanogorodrim, he did not feel beautiful at all.

Looking into the scraps of broken mirror in their war camp, he saw a face that was gaunt and splotched. He had bumps where the oils had clustered, and his nose was too prominent from healing wrongly after a break. His hair had all been shaved off, as it had been so diseased and damaged from years of exposure it was better to just start over. What was growing back was a darker, duller color, and stringy. Then there were the scars.

‘Scar’ was a word he had not known a few weeks ago. He hadn’t even known there was such a concept for his people to name. Every time he had been cut before, his skin healed back perfectly; the same shade, the same height, the same texture. There had never been any of these impurities on his knees or hands or arms before.

Until they went across the sea, there were none on his face.

It was one of the old amongst their people who explained the affliction to him. Scars were marks of destruction left on them by dark harm. Morgul weapons and evil magics did this. Scars… were proof that an elf had been marred.

He certainly felt marred, both outside and within.

No, he was not well-made, or a copper-top anymore. He could never wear those names without looking like a farce, just like he couldn’t be the third Finwë when the first and second were dead. He was something else entirely now, something marred and ugly. Like a gemstone that had been misused and neglected and thrown away, until what little shine remained was paled in comparison to what it once was.

Maedhros wasn’t sure he cared anymore though.


	2. The Imperfect Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor is not a king, but he is a performer. Luckily he has the right costume.

If he hadn’t grown up in a family of smiths, Maglor would think the crown was rather glorious. Each link was silver, and the longer he looked the more detail he unearthed. Songbirds hid among the twisting silver branches that composed the circlet, and where the metal joined together emeralds were embedded. The ruby in honor of their father was the centerpiece, it glowed when there was no light and it rested heavily on his forehead, but the crown was undeniably Maglor’s. He appreciated the gesture, especially from Curufin.

But Maglor was the grandson, son, brother, and uncle of smiths. He’d spent a fair amount of time in the forge, and even his mediocre work was good enough to fool the uninitiated. Maglor was a great discerner of quality, and he knew how to spot cut corners and cheap substitutes. When he was a youth with a lot of expectations and no confidence to his name, he’d enjoyed judging his ostentatious peers for their subpar jewelry.

_I might have missed the high note, but that necklace isn’t silver. The water and air will rust it in a matter of weeks._

_A Noldor might not recognize a robin’s song from a nightingale's, but at least we can see the craftsmanship of a child. Carnistir could make better, and I can differentiate both._

_My fingers will heal and the blood can be cleaned from my harp. But you’re never getting a refund for that gaudy, glass thing you call a bracelet._

It had been a bad habit, and he’d outgrown it. But the skills he’d used as a weapon against his peers remained. Maglor could always tell when his brother’s work was rushed and shoddy.

Not that he could blame Curufin. He’d been half-way through forging Nelyo’s crown when their new High King was captured, with no word on whether he was alive or dead. Curufin was never duped by anyone twice, so he forged Maglor’s crown three times as fast. No need to lose another king before his crown could even be finished! Curufin, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights and endless tears, had thrown the damn thing at Maglor’s head, hissing, “If you get the urge to run off on a suicide mission, tell me beforehand! I’d like a warning to start working on Turko’s. Maybe I’ll just go ahead and make his and Carnistir’s!”

Curufin’s short fuse had been made nigh non-existent by Father’s death and he was actually set a lit but Nelyo’s capture, but Maglor didn’t fear it. Atarinkë’s grief was as hysterical and fiery as Father’s had been, but he’d never had the same spark as Feanor. His tantrums only reached as far as what words anyone in earshot let hurt and what inanimate object he could hurl. Maglor was certain his brother was more prone to hurting himself than anything else. He did feel a little bad for the wife and son that had to live in such close quarters with Curufin’s emotional fallout, though.

Still, Curufin had put a lot of care in the symbol of Maglor’s new, interim kingship. Not time certainly, and probably not as much effort as Nelyo. But there was certainly care, and love, and trust. Curufin made a crown fit for his bard brother, one that spoke of song, steady roots, and the greens Maglor always favored. It looked nothing like Father’s crown, nor the sketches for Nelyo’s. This was the symbol of an entirely new king, not the reminder of a legacy that Maglor had expected.

Somehow, that made it so much worse.

 _Curufin_ trusted him. Curufin _trusted_ him. There were a thousand more people out there who wanted to trust Maglor to lead and protect them. They were going to follow his orders! Look to him for guidance!

His grandfather and father- two people who were never, never supposed to be gone- were dead, Nelyo was beyond them, and there were people out there who wanted Maglor to put on this crown and be a king.

And why? Because his brother tossed a hunk of metal at him? Because they chose his grandfather? Because Finwë’s family was supposed to take up that burden? Father called the idea ‘inheritance’, but that was just one of many words Feanor made up! None of this was real!

This was never supposed to come close to Maglor. He’d not trained for this, thought of this, expected this; not like Nelyo had, even though that should never have been necessary.

Just as that tacky jewelry had not made his classmates as polished and sophisticated as they’d hoped, and insulting them hadn’t made him feel better, a crown did not a king Maglor make. Curufin’s circlet was just as cheap an imitation of greater things as Maglor’s entire kingship. This was madness. 

This was reality, and it was sitting in Maglor's hands.

Curufin had made this crown; made it poor and personal and passable because he didn’t want to be in this position either. But they both were. That unfortunately meant Maglor would have to try. If Curufin could try... Well, Maglor really hated letting his little brothers out-do him.

He was not his father or his brother. His ascension to this position was hasty, and if any looked at him longer than a few seconds they would see the imperfections and cracks. But it would have to be good enough.

Maglor put on his crown, and walked out to address his subjects. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say yet, because he was not a king. Not yet. But until then, Maglor was still a great performer. He knew- like Curufin knew- how to hide a few imperfections.


	3. Sweet Intoxication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luthien feels like something Celegorm hadn't known since abandoning the Valar.

The first thing he noticed about her was the dirt on her feet, just peeking out above her slippers. But while he was glancing down, he saw how the grass around her swayed and rippled, and small flowers tried to bloom. The ground was greener, and the twitching buds were a color he’d once seen in a dream. A circle spread from Princess Luthien, and everything under her presence was more vibrant. It was there in the air, and when he came too close to it, Celegorm remembered a truth he’d forgotten.

He looked up and gasped. 

The second thing Celegorm noticed about Luthien was the power of her spirit.

The third was her beauty.

He and Curufin locked her in a room, and Celegorm could have wept that it wasn’t a garden. Instead, he compensated plying the princess with flowers, and stayed as close as he could in the coming days. Celegorm watched as vines curled up the walls, and buttercups grew to the size of daffodils. He longed to see what she could do to plants that weren’t in vases.

 _The nightingales_ , he wondered, _would they answer when she sang?_ Celegorm certainly longed to. Luthien sang when she was upset, and Celegorm ached every time. His throat worked uselessly and his limbs went taunt as he sat on a precipice, compelled to whistle along with her but frightened that he’d ruin it. He could rest and listen to Luthien for hours, just lapping up whatever she was willing to give.

He was completely undone by her, every ounce of the walls and defenses and safes he’d erected over several hundred years coming down. How had he coped with this world before her? How had he forgotten what colors and songs were really like?

Celegorm felt young around Luthien; fumbling, incompetent, dwarfed. Celegorm the Kinslayer turned into Tyelkormo the Apprentice, like he’d just broken free of his father’s protective circle for the first time, and gazed upon a Vala in full glory. The world swayed around the Huntsman’s feet, and the trees bent to his will, and the air seemed just a little easier to breath. The hawks answered when he sang.

Lord Oromë had been beautiful.

He touched Luthien’s bare hand for the first time and had to flee the room.

Because Celegorm had been struck, and the force of it sent him to his knees. Crowded in the hallway, he cradled his fingertips that still tingled faintly. This was power, but not kind he’d grown used to feeling in Himlad; this was life, not Morgoth’s darkness. Luthien was a power Celegorm hadn’t felt since arriving on these shores, as strong and beautiful as the forest, wild and wilful. This was creation itself. A part of Luthien’s very spirit was something Celegorm’s incarnate mind could not comprehend.

And he longed to be near it.

Celegorm finally understood why Maglor waxed poetic about the sun and the moon. He wanted bask in her light till Arda’s end.

If only Thingol had taken his people to Valinor!

If only this was another world, another life!

If only he could have one day where he would lie before her in a glade of flowers, as the whole of the natural world clung to her and followed her whim. Luthien’s fingers would run over his skin, leaving streaks of fire that burned like ice in their wake. The stars would be brighter, the flowers more bountiful, the animals walking among them. Even blood would be less ugly, something that fed the earth instead of staining it. Amid her glorious world, Celegorm would worship Luthien in every possible way, and be intoxicated.

But that wasn’t this world.

The only beauty outside of her presence was brutal. Everything was a wash of blacks and reds. Trees turned sinister, and animals became rabid and matted. Morgoth’s will hung off them like tar on their bark and fur, while the ground was steadily tilled to infertility. The Elven and Orcish blood watered their fields, and everything turned to mud.

The only untainted thing was the silmarils.

The silmarils, and Luthien.

Everything in Celegorm ached and twisted to follow Luthien, serve her, swear his love in every possible way. 

But where would that lead him? To the false beauty of Doriath. To their paper-thin strength. To the ruse Thingol pulled, that the Valar pulled; the one that Arafinwë and every other coward hid behind. That was why he left Valinor and the colors and songs there, Celegorm suddenly remembered.

Their strength had failed, and one day it would again. Their weakness would make the world ugly one day, when Morgoth came once more.

Someone had to challenge the brute; make some kind of stand against his ugliness. Until those with actual power fought, it was the task of those few Elves to combat him with their mediocre, imperfect strength. The weak would fight for those cowards.

But Luthien wasn’t a coward.

Luthien was beautiful.

Maybe… maybe, if he could not follow her back to her father’s cage… She could follow him. 

Surely not even Morgoth’s ugliness could withstand Luthien.


	4. The Opposite of Blank-Slate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir takes after his father in appearance.

It was in the subtle ways that Caranthir looked like his father.

Seeing Curufin was like being slammed over the head with a Feanor-shaped statue, but when people looked at Caranthir it took them a few moments. They ended conversations by saying, “You look so much like you father,” instead of starting off with that. They had to see how Caranthir’s body moved first.

Because it wasn’t how his face was structured that made Caranthir resemble Feanor; it was his mannerisms.

People recognized Feanor in his fourth son through the way he arched his eyebrows imperiously. They laughed at the twist to their mouths that thinned their lips. It was in Caranthir’s head shakes, and hair tossing, and glares, and scowls. Caranthir smiled the same way his father did, with his whole body and a grin that seemed to take up half his face.

Grandfather Finwë adored it.

He would point out the resemblance more than anyone else, hoisting an exceptionally young Carnistir up to make faces at him and watch the baby copy. He planted kisses on his grandson to see him squeal in delight or disgust, and then tell any who would listen stories about Feanor’s youngest years. Grandfather teased Caranthir- like everyone teased him- when he grew older. But he was more willing to bear Finwë’s jokes and pokes, because his grandfather did it without any malice to him. He just wanted to see his son. Grandfather wanted to watch all the reactions that Feanor would have given him, had they not been so estranged at the time.

So Caranthir blushed and waved his hands and scowled and laughed with all the truth he could muster for his grandfather. It was a lot of truth. He was a terrible liar.

Caranthir had his father’s eyes.

They were grey, bright, sharp, and their eyes were honest.

Curufin could go stone-faced and tricky; faking politeness and masking contempt. Caranthir and Feanor never mastered this fine art, and their eyes were what gave it away. Even if Caranthir could move his mouth to form a smile, it never reached his eyes; his fake smiles were just grimaces. Even when he needed to be somber, if he was feeling happy his eyes glowed with that emotion. He couldn’t hide it. Father said falsehood was unnecessary and cowardly anyway.

But even if he could school his eyes to hide what they presented, he would never escape accidentally putting his feelings on full display.

Caranthir’s face flushed too easily for that.

So much so that his mother called him ‘red-face’. People told him and Curufin apart by determining which one of them had the ruddy complexion. Girls intentionally said sweet or lewd things to see who could make his ears, neck, and forehead scarlet first. Celegorm knew through his flush at exactly which point Caranthir got truly mad.

Caranthir hated how much he blushed. Father didn’t blush.

He went by ‘Carnistir’ because it was easier, because people flinched away from the name ‘Morifinwë’. Many questioned Feanor’s naming of all his sons- even Mother, especially in Caranthir’s case- but he never minded. What did it matter that he was dark or black when he was also red? Caranthir would rather be known for his black moods and dark expressions than his ruddy face. Those were choices after all. Being unpleasant was something he could control.

Besides… those traits that made him dark made him look like his father.

Those subtle little details, like how he tied his hair back in the sun and how his nose curled when he had a bad hand at cards. In these small ways, Caranthir was a copy of his father. Truly, Caranthir looked more like Feanor than any of his other sons. The pair of them were just too expressive for their own good.


	5. Forging Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin met his wife through their work.

She has steady hands, Curufin thought, watching long fingers wield tweezers with deft grace and the skill of a master at work. She plucked a glob of molten glass here, poked a pattern there; so close, yet never flinching away from the heat. Curufin wouldn’t be surprised is her nose burned a little, all the same.

The first words Curufin said to the lady who he didn’t yet know would one day be his wife were, “You should come to Formenos.”

She crossed her arms and sniffed, and hardly blinked before she replied, “Why would I go to that wasteland?”

Which was fair. Formenos was a wasteland; unless you were an artisan with Feanor and Nerdanel’s favor. Then, the bleak land of the north became an oasis of creativity and opportunity. Curufin’s family’s patronage meant lodging, stipend, connections, and materials. If you wanted to learn, you learned. If you wanted work, you worked. You could create wherever you wanted under the crown’s patronage, but most flocked to the prince’s fine forges and studios. The young ones, those just past their first majority like Curufin and the other apprentices, stayed in the bunk houses.

Curufin told her that he’d recommend her for sponsorship in case she changed her mind, and she told him to do something rather rude.

He really hoped she accepted the invitation.

Almost as much as he hoped she already knew who he was, and spoke to him like that anyway.

Six months later, he addressed the new students on forge safety, and glass girl stood at the front. She called him “bossy-prince” and smirked. 

Curufin fought the urge to look too pleased or smug.

The start of a new season was always the worst for Curufin’s work, because of all the new eyes. He was the other apprentices’ age, but also in charge of them when a supervisor wasn’t around. Questions were directed at him. He enforced rules. Curufin was the benchmark against which they were measured. 

They were always watching: to copy, just to admire, to desperately search for any flaw. He was Feanor's skilled son, his favored son. What would he make?

Though he felt like a failure every time, the scrutiny made Curufin clumsy.

Glass girl- he knew her name, but never used it because she refused to address him properly- though, had no interest in metals, little in gemstones, and less still in titles. She had a sharp tongue. He’d rather take her criticism than their praise. It was far more honest.

They all knew after all, that Curufin’s work wasn’t as good as his father’s.

It never would be.

Curufin didn’t know what real pride in himself felt like. The fleeting sensations of fulfillment that he hoarded all came from Father’s praise. But that was a rare luxury. Father made a point of ignoring him in the forge when the others were present.

Curufin worked in silence; hammering, and drawing, and casting, and burning himself without a grunt. The only person who’s voice he wanted to hear wouldn’t speak in public, and he had no desire to draw anyone else’s attention. 

But now glass girl was always there, passing tools and lending gloves. With a glance, she let him borrow her salve. She double-checked his calculations. She guarded his station. All this, without a word most days, and no kind words, at all. Curufin reciprocated.

It was nice, and it didn’t change.

Until, months into their harsh comradeship- their working relationship- she glanced over at his station and gasped. Curufin looked away from the almost finished silver comb he’d been working on for weeks, and dread curled in his stomach. What was wrong with it?

But she just looked into his eyes and said, “It’s beautiful.”

Curufin knew she spoke earnestly, and his heart almost started beating out of his chest.

The comb was a gift for Aredhel.

But suddenly he was making plans for another comb, another gift. This one would be pure silver! Silver with… rubies, to compliment her golden skin. He’d ask her advice the whole time, let her lean over his shoulder, request she help mold it. Then he’d give it to her as a courting gift, and let the recognition shine in her eyes. 

Yes, a decorative, silver comb to help pull her hair back while she worked… that is what they would forge together. 

The first words Curufin spoke to the lady he suddenly knew he was going to marry were, “Thank you.”


	6. It'll Step on You When You're Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunting makes them feel like two separate people like nothing else.

Their elder brother was known as the apprentice of Oromë, friend and foe of beasts, an Elf of the woods: Celegorm, the Huntsman.

Ambarussa meanwhile… well, they were just ‘hunters’.

“It’s because there’s two of us, isn’t it?” Amras would ask gravely, and then they’d burst into laughter at the uncomfortable back peddling. Of course it was because there were two of them! That was how everything was. They were named because they were twins, clothed, seated, taught, punished, spoken to, and loved in a certain way because there was two of them. From the beginning, Amras and Amrod had always been treated like they were more one person in two bodies than anything else. And it often made people unsure of how to classify them.

The twins themselves found it more amusing than annoying, as they did many things. After all, Amras and Amrod were Ambarussa. They were a pair, inseparable from the outset. Ambarussa wanted to do everything together, and in the same way. Their lives had come with a pre-built companion, so neither would ever be lonely. If they accepted those benefits, they had to take the cons. Besides, it wasn’t fair to revel in their being Ambarussa, and then scold others for following their lead.

There was one situation, though, one occasion, one area, where those bonds fell away, and Amras and Amrod were two wholly separate people. 

Let it be known that the youngest sons of Feanor were nothing if not competitive. But rarely with each other. The twins would challenge any Elf who would listen, but only one competition that caused Amras and Amrod to measure up one another, and spilt their joint purse for wager.

The hunt.

There was nothing else that stirred the rivalry. Just the stag racks whose points they counted; just partridges, that were evaluated on plumpness and quantity; well-made traps, were subjected to grading; and the merciless teasing that came after almost getting gored by a boar could follow a twin for months. They weren’t like this with their lessons! But it made Amrod’s face flush and his mood sour when Amras shot more birds. Amras pouted when they ate the wild pig Amrod speared for dinner when he came away empty-handed that day, while he only had praise for his brother when the younger twin bested him at swordplay.

The hunt was just different. Ambarussa couldn’t say why exactly. But if they’d wager a guess- and the twins would always wager on anything- Amras and Amrod would say it had something to do with stakes. Wasn’t Valinor so sterile, at times? No actions had consequences. With eternal time and eternal resources, failure was just a matter of trying again. There would always be someone to pick you up. Nothing could hurt you. 

But the woods could hurt you. Amras and Amrod’s actions mattered more when there were tangible consequences, like those you felt at the end of the hunt. It was invigorating, and that rush of feeling alive made them feel separate and whole like nothing else. 

Celegorm liked to say that the first time father put bows in their hands, they were off to the races like never before. He loved that his littlest brothers enjoyed his work, even if he did roll his eyes at their friendly competition. But that was really why Celegorm was a huntsman and they weren’t.

The wild, the animals, the kills, that was Celegorm’s occupation. His service to Lord Oromë was about culling and conserving the wilds for the consumption of Elves for the rest of eternity. He got great joy out of his mission, but it was still work. Hunting was Celegorm’s purpose.

For Ambarussa, hunting was a game. 

A profitable one, that delivered great dividends to their family, friends, and stores. It made Amrod and Amras feel separate and alive and prideful and aware of themselves. Hunting had higher stakes and prettier prizes than a round of cards.

But a sport, a pass-time, a game, nonetheless.

Mother and Father worried they’d spend all their time playing in the woods and never find a true passion to occupy their eternal lives. 

But then came the silmarils, and the oath, and the ocean. And all that made purpose in life seem like a silly concern.

Ambarussa, Amras and Amrod, they were the hunters, and suddenly they needed food for their war camp. There were no easy supplies in Beleriand. It would have to be taken. They went to work in the woods.

Suddenly, hunting wasn’t fun anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to actually leave a note on this one, because I think the twins came out looking worse than any of the other Feanorions in this series of ficlets. I accidentally characterized them as a pair of gamblers? And they really do look like a pair of immature brats here, but that I'm more comfortable with cause they were, like dumb college students when everything went down, right? At least, that's how old I think they were.
> 
> Which was kind of my motivation for this little hc I think. They hadn't figured themselves out yet, and as a result Ambarussa were chasing highs. Which was the hunts for them. That was my thought process, even if they do come off as rather unlikable here. They'll grow (or Amras will, depending on which canon you subscribe to; I switch depending on angst needs).
> 
> That's all I had to say! Thank you for reading!


	7. Kissing in Closets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerdanel and Feanor just want to be stupid teenagers and kiss each other. Kiss each other a lot. Dad keeps getting in the way.

“No offense, but I hate my father.”

“Why would I be offended about your feelings regarding your own father?”

“Because you like him.”

“Yes, well… no offense, but I hate my father.”

Her nose scrunched, despite Nerdanel’s best efforts to hide how uncomfortable she was with this statement. Feanor should have been pleased; as prince, he should have been happy that she showed such respect and loyalty to her king. Instead, he was just annoyed that Nerdanel couldn’t listen to him complain about his own father without politics getting in the way.

But, like always, she understood anyway.

“Point taken. I’m still angry at my father.”

They were in the storage room, tucked among the jars of sand and the uncut minerals. Even in the dim light, Feanor could still see how swollen Nerdanel’s lips were. He doubted he looked better. Quite frankly, he didn’t know if Master Mahtan would be angrier with him for kissing his daughter, or her for kissing the crown prince. For once in his life, Feanor didn’t want to know the answer. 

“Point taken in return.”

This was a highly uncomfortable situation.

Feanor huffed softly, and twisted his oddly angled wrist. He was pressed between a clay jar, and Nerdanel’s limbs, the result of their mad scramble away from Master Mahtan’s imperious steps, that seemed to have faded now. A little physical finagling couldn’t hurt.

He very carefully tried to pull his arm from under Nerdanel’s armpit, but it didn’t quite work out as intended. Feanor ended up banging his elbow against a lid, sending it crashing to the floor. As the hollow crash enveloped their small space, Nerdanel jumped to escape the debris, and lost her already precarious footing. She careened right into Feanor’s chest. 

They found themselves in just as awkward a position, with Nerdanel pinning Feanor against the wall, one hand over his shoulder and the other gripping his shirt. Their bodies seemed to align at every point.

Feanor’s face went red. From this angle, he could count every single one of her freckles.

Nerdanel looked up, not blushing nearly as hard as him but cheeks still dusted pink, and she gave him an embarrassed grin. 

“Hello,” Feanor whispered, just to give himself something to do. Her eyes were… exceptionally lovely. Why didn’t she wear sapphires more again? Oh, because she said they clashed with her hair. But they would look so nice with her eyes, which were crinkled in delight and mischief.

“Good day, Your Highness,” she said in a breathy voice, but just as quietly as him and with a great deal of pomp. “Now what exactly is a prince of your stature doing, engaging in such nonsense as this?”

She was quoting her father directly. Master Mahtan had always treated Feanor fairly, but with a great deal of expectation. Feanor was tasked with not only improving his skills in the forge, but also maintaining many other studies, like dance and rhetoric, in an effort to maintain his ‘princely duties’. “You pick up on things fast,” Master Mahtan would croon, looking at Feanor’s beautiful work, finished long before the other apprentices. “That’s good. It means you have time to write me up a solution to the Northern Road issue.” 

Master Mahtan would ensure Feanor kept his manners, said the prayers he didn’t believe in, write to his father, and a variety of other things. He invited the boy to his family’s table to make sure he was remembering to eat, and had banished Feanor from the forge late at night many times. Mahtan always found where Feanor was sulking when his mind was working too fast, because he did little things like check on him in the night and monitor the prince’s caffeine consumption. 

Mahtan seemed to think it was his job to raise a proper young Elf, in addition to a proper prince and a proper smith.

It was nice. 

Except for when master Mahtan used Feanor’s title to scold him for being sharp-tongued, or said princes shouldn’t be kissing acclaim-less artists.

Nerdanel had replied, “Does that mean I have to have acclaim before I’m allowed to ask for his hand?”

Which is what started their mad dash escape from their guardian, Feanor and Nerdanel laughing all the way.

That teasing smile still danced on her lips, and Nerdanel’s face was pleasantly flushed. She had not made a move to pull back from where she had him pinned, and Feanor didn’t want her to. Here, hiding from their responsibilities and clustered amongst broken clay shards, was where Feanor wanted to stay forever.

“Can I kiss you again?” Feanor whispered, moving his head down to meet her’s.

Nerdanel had already surged up to capture his lips before she even nodded.

_This_ , Feanor thought as he kissed the girl he loved so much it frightened him, _is what I want_. He wanted to be away from Tirion, away from Father and _his wife_ , and their child who was already on his way to taking the title Feanor didn’t even want but felt he needed to preserve. He wanted to escape even Mahtan’s overprotective hold on both his daughter and his royal ward, and the princely expectations and duties that came with what should have been just a craftsman’s apprenticeship. He wanted Nerdanel, who listened to him rant incoherently about tanzanite for hours, and had a fire in her soul that drove her to ceaseless exploration and curiosity.

Feanor wanted to kiss her until Dagor Dagorath.

_Bang!_

“I found you!”

They pulled apart and screamed.


End file.
